


Ineffable

by StormySeaWitch



Category: The Dragon Prince (Cartoon)
Genre: Angel Soren, Continuously being updated until I fill the hole in my heart, Demon Gren, Drabbles, Ficlets, Good Omens AU, Ineffable Partners, M/M, Wingfic, oneshots, soft, some have spoilers for the show please read all notes before each chapter
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-17
Updated: 2019-08-06
Packaged: 2020-06-30 01:56:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,310
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19843168
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StormySeaWitch/pseuds/StormySeaWitch
Summary: A demon and an angel have spent 6000 years on Earth. It's only natural that they've become friends. Just don't tell their bosses.Alternatively;Good Omens AU drabbles; some are related, some are not. Some scenes are borrowed from the book or show; others are not. Some are angsty, all are adorable. Featuring Crowley!Gren and Aziraphale!Soren.





	1. Air Guitar

**Author's Note:**

> Please note; if you haven't read or seen Good Omens yet, then be wary of SPOILERS.  
> I'll make sure I note which chapters have spoilers and which do not.
> 
> This is probably going to be ongoing for a while but doesn't have a set number of chapters.   
> I hope you enjoy it!

**Chapter Notes:  
NO SPOILERS; warnings for alcohol and language**

Gren’s flat had been somewhat of a mystery for Soren, and he had never been any further than the front door at the demon’s insistence. Something something privacy, something something den of sin and something something haven’t tidied, apparently.

Now that he was here, the angel couldn’t really see how the flat could ever be untidy because there wasn’t really anything _in it_.

‘Gren?’ he whispered, pushing the door open a little.

It wasn’t technically breaking in if it wasn’t locked in the first place. He could hear music coming from somewhere, but no sign of his friend.

Because they were, you know.

Friends.

He tiptoed through the flat without making a sound, wary of Gren jumping out from behind a corner to scare him, but the place was empty. The only companions he had were lovely plants, and the soft harmonising of Queen.

The words were familiar to him, but not so much that he would be able to sing along. But really, anyone born after the 50s would recognise Bohemian Rhapsody if they heard it.

Sudden movement in his peripheral vision nearly gave the poor angel a heart attack and he ducked behind a corner.

But it wasn’t Beelzebub, or Dagor, or Hastor, or any unfriendly demon sent from the bowels of Hell to punish Gren for fraternising with an angel on the frequent. No, it was definitely _his_ demon.

He’d slid along the polished floors in his socks, wearing nothing but boxers with a flame pattern licking up his thighs to his hips. His wings were fully extended, glossy and black and glorious; _how anyone would be disappointed with wings like those_ …

Soren’s heart skipped a beat or ten.

The demon kicked out a dramatic leg. Gren's glasses were discarded, his hair a tangled mess and his face scrunched up as he mimed the guitar solo playing from the mysterious speakers.

With each strum of his non existent guitar, the music got louder and louder.

Soren felt a smile creep onto his face as he watched Gren thrash his head around and strike the invisible strings of his air guitar, moving his hips in a suggestive way that was really just a more exaggerated version of the way he walked.

‘ _So you think you can stone me and spit in my eye?_ ’ Gren belted over the lyrics, his voice clear and strong like he could be a good singer if he wanted to but wasn’t really trying. ‘ _So you think you can love me and leave me to die?_ ’

The sneaky angel had begun to realise his predicament, because if Gren knew that he was watching then he’d most likely end up a dead angel.

Well no, not really. But definitely an angel with a demon friend who wouldn’t talk to him for some time.

‘ _Ohhhhhhh baby, can’t do this to me baaaaby_ ,’ Gren said, spinning around and dropping to his knees on the cold floor, air guitar traded in for an air microphone. ‘ _Just gotta get out, just gotta get right outta_ \- what the fuck?’

In a flurry of feathers the music stopped dead and Gren nearly flew himself right through the tinted windows. Soren felt his own pearlescent wings unfurl in fright, an automatic defence that he honestly hated, given that it was triggered by demons.

But Gren wasn’t just any demon. And Soren had trespassed into his space, uninvited and unannounced. And watched him dance his pretty little horns off, like the nutter that he was.

‘I’m sorry!’ Soren said immediately, bending to pick up a long black feather that had fluttered loose. ‘I did knock.’

‘You _knocked_ ,’ Gren said with a heavy breath, slipping a pair of glasses on; probably conjured from the ether. ‘You knocked… and then what? Just let yourself in?’

‘Well I was worried,’ Soren replied, running his fingers over the feather. ‘You didn’t answer your phone.’

‘Angel,’ Gren moaned, his head falling back. ‘We used to go centuries without seeing each other. Just because you know where I live now doesn’t mean you can just pop over for a chat whenever it strikes your fancy.’

‘I’m sorry,’ Soren said again, his wings tucking close to his body in a display of submission. ‘I didn’t want to disturb you. You looked like you were having fun.’

Gren curled his lip in a sneer, but his heart wasn’t in it. He was still breathing heavily from the exertion of being a one-demon rock band, and Soren knew he’d be forgiven eventually.

‘Tea?’ the angel proposed.

‘Wine,’ the demon corrected.

‘It’s ten in the morning.’

‘Never stopped us before, Angel,’ Gren replied, sauntering across his living room until he was right in front of Soren.

With a jerk of his chin he was magically clothed, wings tucked away into another plane of existence.

Soren handed him a wine glass conjured from nowhere, and Gren thanked him by necking the whole thing.

‘Plans, Angel?’

‘Not really,’ Soren replied.

‘Good,’ Gren said with a curling smirk, so reminiscent of his serpent form. With a snap of his fingers the music roared to life again.

Soren ruffled his wings nervously, but the demon just extended a hand.

‘Surely they teach you to dance in Heaven?’ Gren asked.

Soren rolled his eyes, but let the redhead drag him onto the makeshift dance floor that was his living room floor.


	2. Wings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gren helps Soren groom his wings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Warnings; language, no spoilers, wingfic

Gren has always been a huge fan of sleep.

Soren knows this.

At one point the demon had slept for an entire century, getting up only once to use the bathroom.

Soren on the other hand, feels like sleep is a waste of time. As if he hasn’t realised that, unless he gets inconveniently discorporated, he has literally nothing but time, and he’s already covered every other sin in some capacity, why would Sloth be any different?

Because Soren is a little more demon than he’d like anyone to know.

_Gren_ knows this, but Gren doesn’t count.

It just often gets lost in the sheer amount of pure, angelic energy the blonde radiates. How could someone so gentle, so kind, so terribly terribly good… be even a little demonic?

Gren knows that Soren loves food; he loves his material possessions, his clothes and his books and his fancy dancing shoes; he loves so much, so deep and so fast and without any second thought.

Apparently it’s an angel thing. Gren doesn’t understand it, but it’s the way the stupid creatures are.

In love with everything, and everyone, except apparently his bony demon self.

_But we don’t have time to unpack all that_.

At the moment, Gren is trying desperately to convince Soren to try and sleep, even if it’s only for a few hours.

‘Will it stop your incessant yammering?’ the angel snaps, slopping hot chocolate over the side of his mug.

‘Probably not,’ Gren answers honestly, and it’s this tiny miracle that pulls Soren a little closer to the temptation.

‘One hour,’ the angel concedes. ‘And if I don’t like it, I’m getting up.’

‘Whatever, just… come on.’

Always one to take the most difficult route, Gren shucks his jacket the human way, tossing it easily to the floor and starting to wiggle out of his trousers.

Soren just miracles himself into the stupidest, most endearing set of cotton pajamas Gren has ever seen, and the demon stops with one leg still stuck in the ankle of his pants to look the angel up and down.

‘Really? That’s what you’re going with?’ he asks, an eyebrow peeking over the top of his glasses.

‘How is your choice any better?’ Soren points out, looking directly at Gren’s fiery boxers and his pale skinny legs.

‘You’ve obviously never felt two thousand threadcount sheets on your bare skin, Angel,’ Gren says, kicking off his pants and sliding into the bed. ‘Come on.’

Soren tsks and rolls his eyes and generally makes a big song and dance about how much he doesn’t enjoy the whole notion of sleeping and bedtime and all such related nonsense, but he slides under the sheets anyway.

He rolls onto his side so that he can face Gren, who just has his usual smug smirk on his face.

‘Are you really going to sleep with these on?’ Soren asks, tapping the lense of Gren’s glasses.

‘I don’t usually,’ he answers, surprisingly honest. ‘But you’re here, ssso…’

He peters off with a hiss, belying his discomfort with the topic. Soren plucks the glasses from his demon’s face anyway, folding them nicely and popping them on the bedside table.

Gren closes his eyes and pretends he’s sleeping already, but the angel isn’t fooled.

‘Gren,’ he whispers, reaching out to touch the demon’s cool skin with his fingertips. ‘Look at me.’

Yellow-slitted eyes open tentatively, the pupils adjusting to the light. Soren smiles.

‘Much better,’ he says. ‘I don’t know why they bother you.’

‘They’re terrifying,’ Gren replies. ‘Nearly gave myssself a heart attack first mirror I looked in after I Fell.’

‘They’re beautiful,’ Soren says.

‘You think tartan isss beautiful.’

‘It is.’

‘So your judgement is ssskewed and your opinion is void.’

Soren sniffs, mildly annoyed, but Gren just pulls the blankets up to his shoulders.

‘Just roll over and go to sleep,’ the demon snaps, no real bite in his voice.

Soren does exactly that, tucking a hand under his cheek and letting out a sigh. He can do this, honestly, how hard can it be?

The angel lets out a little yelp as Gren’s long arms snake around his waist and pull him closer.

‘Sssleep, Angel.’

It takes him a while to get comfortable, but he does in the end. Gren is cooler than him, but still so warm, snuggled into his back. Their toes even touch at one point, but the demon retracts his feet quickly, probably due to the connotations of playing _bed footsie_ with someone who was just a friend.

For Gren, it’s the closest he’s been to content in a long time.

No Beelzebub or Gabriel breathing down their necks. No stupid miracles or demonic acts to run off and perform. Nothing to hide from.

Just Soren, in his arms, in his bed, enjoying two thousand threadcount sheets and a warm body to snuggle into.

The two sleep soundly.

At least, Soren does.

Gren is woken rather suddenly when Soren is torn from his arms and the blanket is whipped from his legs, making him screech. The sound is cut off by something fluffy filling his open mouth, and he has to pause to spit whatever it is out.

Feathers?

_Oh_.

In his relaxed state, Soren’s wings have materialised from the ether, directly into Gren’s face and more importantly his mouth. At least he knows that the angel probably takes meticulous care of his wings, but still.

Soren lets out a little sigh as Gren disentangles himself from angelic feathers, sitting up in the bed and examining the sight. The feathers are all the purest white, almost glowing, and Gren feels a tiny pang somewhere in his chest cavity.

Not his heart, demons don’t have hearts.

No hearts, no souls, no capability to love, and definitely no glowing, radiant wings like these.

At least not any more.

His memories from Heaven are few and far between, but his fingers automatically know what to do. He runs his hands through the soft feathers, searching for any that give under his gentle touch. It was one thing for Soren to take care of his own wings, but nothing can beat a proper grooming.

Gren knows this, because it’s been roughly… _six thousand years_ since someone last picked through his charcoal wings and helped groom them properly.

Give or take, whatever. 

As he tugs loose feathers free and smoothes down the new fluff, he wonders briefly when was the last time someone did this for Soren. And maybe he also wonders _who_ was the last person to do this for Soren.

Grooming is - for most angels, anyway - a very intimate action. It takes trust. Gren knows that Soren trusts him, even though he's a demon. An agent of Hell. He also knows he probably shouldn’t groom his friend’s wings without even asking first, damn it all to hell or heaven or wherever.

Damn it all to heck.

His hands hover near Soren’s wing joint, suddenly hesitant. Even talking to Gren can get Soren in enough trouble for these radiant white feathers to slowly burn to black. What would Heaven do if they could see them right now?

‘Don’t stop,’ Soren mumbles, burying his face into his pillow. ‘Feels good.’

‘I’m sorry,’ Gren says, gently pushing Soren’s wings from his lap. ‘Didn’t even ask.’

‘You don’t have to ask, Gren,’ Soren yawns, turning his head to look at the demon.

His hair is all mussed up and his dark blue eyes are alight, but still sleepy. It’s adorable. Stupid angels, and their adorable, cherubic faces.

‘Who usually grooms you?’ Gren blurts, then he backtracks to cover up his blunder. ‘They do a shit job.’

Soren frowns, and Gren wants to kiss the little lines in his forehead away, make him smile again.

‘I groom my own wings,’ he says, sitting up and rubbing his eyes. ‘You know as well as any angel that it’s hard to reach the back.’

Gren ignores the twinge in his heart when Soren just drops the notion that he's still angelic. 

‘No one grooms you?’ he confirms, tentatively running his fingertips over the fine flight feathers.

‘Of course not,’ Soren snorts. ‘Who do you think was going to pop down to Earth and groom my wings, my dear?’

‘You could have asked.’

‘I didn’t even think,’ Soren says, stretching his arms and his wings out straight. ‘They really do feel better. Would you do the other side?’

Gren feels a sudden need to be wearing his glasses. It’s too much, too open, too raw and vulnerable.

Soren spins around so that his head is where Gren’s feet are, and his feet are tucked under his own pillow. The demon swallows as a bright white wing is laid gently into his lap.

‘Are you sure?’

‘I trust you not to pull out my flight feathers,’ Soren yawns. ‘Not that I use them, but in any case, I was wondering if, afterwards, you’d fancy some lunch?’

Lunch, grooming, napping; it’s all very domestic.

A demon could get used to this nonsense.

Tugging gently at any loose feathers and smoothing over the new ones that were growing in, Gren lets his mind wander. Wander to far off places; different times in their shared six thousand years. Soren has never left himself this open, ever.

‘...Soren, are we friends?’ he asks quietly.

‘Of course we are,’ Soren replies easily. He doesn’t even think about it, it just comes out.

‘Would you… I mean, if it was okay…’ Gren says, frowning as he concentrates on a particularly stubborn feather. ‘Oh, nevermind.’

Soren gently tugs his wing from Gren’s grasp, wincing a little as the rogue feather pops free, then he sits up. He looks positively angelic with his mussed bed hair and concerned little pout and wings like fresh powder snow tucked behind him.

‘What is it?’

‘Would you do mine?’ the demon blurts. ‘They’re a mess… and hell isn’t really great for feathers. They’re all about bones and membrane down there.’

Soren blinks. ‘You haven’t groomed your own feathers since you Fell?’

‘Of course I have,’ he snaps, jumping out of the bed. Then his face softens. ‘Like you said. It’s hard to reach the back.’

Soren beams and it’s like staring into the sun. ‘Of course I can. Finish up with this one so it’s at least done, and we’ll start on yours.’

‘What about lunch?’ Gren asks, knowing full well that it was unwise to get between a featherbrained angel and his crepes.

‘My dear,’ Soren says, rolling his eyes as he goes back to laying on his tummy. ‘We have all the time in the world for lunch.’

Gren beams and goes back to reverently running his hands over the white wings that Soren rests in his lap.

The angel sighs, and the demon has never heard a more beautiful sound in his many lifetimes.


	3. Chivalry Fell on it's Sword

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Soren's Angel is missing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains SPOILERS for Good Omens.   
> Please don't read it if you are avoiding them!
> 
> Also warning for language and implied character death. It is angsty and sad.

_ Honey, you’re familiar like my mirror years ago _

_ Idealism sits in prison, chivalry fell on it’s sword _

Gren’s bike is his most prized possession. He’s had it from new, an upgrade since he accidentally wrapped his car around a tree in the seventies. It’s a good, faithful machine, and he trusts it implicitly.

It’s currently racing through the streets of London at approximately 110 mph; if the demons knew to come for him, then Upstairs sure as Heaven knew to come for Soren.

‘Call Soren,’ he hisses into his phone, but his words are snatched away by the speed at which he’s travelling. With a furious snarl, he shoves the phone into his pocket and the bike wobbles with the sudden shift of weight on the seat.

‘Don’t you dare,’ the demon growls, and the bike straightens up immediately, lest it disappoint it’s master.

If Gren had a heart, and a gentle reminder that since he is a demon it is widely assumed that he does not, it would be sinking. The bike screeches to a halt with a shudder in front of Soren’s bookshop.

The scent of burning rubber from the tires is overwhelmed by the acrid stench of smoke and burning wood. Flames lick the inside walls of the bookshop; curling up and puffing thick black clouds out of the broken upper windows.

Gren doesn’t even think. With a wave of his hand the doors fly open, and with another wave they slam shut behind him. He has one goal.

‘Angel,’ he yells, desperate to be heard over the splintering wood and the crackling fire. He wrenches the glasses off his face in the hopes that it helps his hearing. ‘Come on Angel, where are you?’

He steps over a pile of books that Soren was only going through a few days ago. They needed to have their spines mended, he thinks. But there’s no time for that. His Angel is here somewhere, and he needs to find him.

‘Angel!’ he calls again, voice breaking under the strain. No matter how hard he screams, how angrily he bellows, Soren doesn’t reply.

Something explodes from the walls and the force of it knocks Gren off his feet; probably the gas line or something else equally dangerous. He can’t bring himself to sit up. Instead he stays on the charred floor of the bookshop, staring at the ceiling.

How many times has he slept on this floor over the years. How many times has he come here, seeking refuge from the terrible doings of Heaven and Hell and all in between?

And Soren…

The angel always welcomed him with open arms; a cup of tea or a glass of wine, or on some occasions a whole bottle.

‘Angel,’ he chokes out, sitting up with a hiss. ‘ _Soren_?’

No answer.

To assume that we, as humans, can understand what Gren is feeling is a gross overestimation. 

Because in six  _ thousand  _ years Earthside, Soren has been the only constant. Wars have been fought and won and lost, empires have risen and fallen; fads have gone in and out of fashion.

Except Soren.

Soren in his stupid bookshop, with his stupid bowtie and his stupid gavotte and his stupid, stupid perfect little face.

Gren is starting to think that the whole to-do about demons not having hearts is, in fact, rubbish, because right this moment there is something inside him and it is breaking apart like the crumbling walls of the only place he could ever consider  _ home _ as they fall down around him.

‘Someone killed my best friend,’ he keens softly, his fingers finding a little slip of burned paper. He scrunches it up in a fist and throws it into the fire, rage coursing through his ridiculous human limbs. His voice morphs into a snarl. ‘Someone _killed_ my _best friend_. You _bastards_.’

What the _fuck_ did anything matter anymore?

There is only one thing Gren wants at the moment, and that’s Soren.

But Soren is gone. Burned away by Upstairs, probably Hellfire. It would have been painful. He would have been _alone_.

The last words Gren spoke to him were ‘not right now’ and he’d hung up.

His sweet, clever angel worked out where the AntiChrist had ended up, and they  _ burned him from existence _ .

Since the thing he truly wants is no longer available, Gren decides on the next best thing. Get rip-roaring drunk and wait for the apocalypse to destroy them all, because a world without Soren is really not even worth considering.

He spies a book that’s been relatively unharmed by the fire, just a little singed around the edges, and he drags it through the ash and soot, opening at a random page.

Oh.

_ Oh. _

Angel’s handwritten notes, tucked inside. A last gift. Gren chokes out a laugh. His last hours of existence will  _ definitely  _ be spent getting hammered in the nearest pub, reading Soren’s scratchy writing and laughing over the idea that his angel only ever pretended not to read.

Maybe, if he drinks enough, he can pretend that they died together. Happily.

With nothing unsaid between them.

Because oh, there is so much that Gren has yet to say to Soren, and he will never have the chance again.

‘I hate your stupid fancy shoes,’ he tells the shop. ‘The ones you got in France. They were  _ awful _ .’

He’s lying.

‘I don’t even like crepes,’ he continues, getting to his feet.

He’s still lying.

‘I need you, Soren,’ he hisses, and this time he’s not lying. ‘I can’t face this alone.’

This time it’s a plea, hell, it’s a  _ prayer _ .

It says  _ please be okay _ .

It says  _ please forgive me. _

It says  _ Soren, I am so, so sorry. _

Gren cracks his neck and slips his half-melted glasses up his nose.

He’s a mess. All long limbs and singed coat and wild hair, his face filthy with soot except where tears have cut through the grime.

The bookshop doors fly open and he stalks from the exit, Agnes Nutter’s book under one arm and his free hand clenched in a fist.

His bike starts with a purr, almost comforting him as if it can sense his loss.

The doors to the bookshop slam shut, and Gren leaves it behind to burn, along with a decent portion of the heart he just realised he still had.

Queen fires up in the speakers of the bike and Gren’s front wheel wobbles.

__

_ Oh, you're the best friend that I ever had _

_ I've been with you such a long time _

_ You're my sunshine and I want you to know _

_ That my feelings are true _

_ I really love you _

_ Oh, you're my best friend _

For only the second time in his six thousand years, nay, the last twenty minutes, Gren needs to stop and focus on breathing. This is what breaking down feels like. This is what having six millennia of something resembling love being ripped away feels like.

Soren would want him to keep trying; to stop the apocalypse; to try his best and save humanity.

The bike roars to life with the fury of a loyal hellhound and takes him to the pub least likely to refuse him wine by the bottle.

Well, Soren is gone, Gren thinks to himself. And Humanity can get _fucked_.

_ Innocence died screaming, honey ask me I should know _

_ I slithered here from Eden just to hide outside your door _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The chapter after this one is a companion piece, I recommend reading them together!  
> Song: From Eden by Hozier


	4. To Be Alone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Soren pays for a mistake he made in the 70s.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This piece is a COMPANION to the previous chapter. 
> 
> It contains MINOR spoilers for the show but didn't actually happen.   
> Warnings for language, implied character death and angst.

_ There are questions I can’t ask... _

_...now at last, the worst is over _

__

Soren is bothered.

He’s bothered, and he’s  _ scared _ .

Surely the Almighty doesn’t want this. Humanity is Her creation – why would she let things get so far out of hand that the Earth was destroyed?

All for what? A turf war?

He’s positively  _ irritated  _ at this point.

Since Gren had rudely hung up on him, the angel had ducked around a sputtering Sergeant Shadwell with a promise that he truly only had two nipples, locked his shop with a wave of his hand then hailed a cab to take him to the demon’s apartment. 

Sitting in the back seat now he realises that this mightn’t be his best idea, in case the forces of Hell are still there.

It wouldn’t do at all, really, to waltz into Gren’s minimalist apartment and just lift the lid on their arrangement, their relationship - not after six thousand years of keeping it secret.

The apartment complex doesn’t feel any more evil than usual, but something is definitely off. There’s a tingling in his fingertips that feels familiar, but he can’t place the sensation.

At the sight of the open door, his heart races. Hearts are very human things, and in his endeavour to truly understand the human experience Soren has put a lot of effort into teaching his to behave properly.

The only things that really mess with the silly thing are dancing, good food and Gren. 

The tingling in his fingers is spreading to his hands and he realises with a bolt of fear that he can sense something worse than evil.

Something  _ angelic.  _ Something  _ holy _ .

If Uriel and the others had found Gren then…

He steps through the door and examines the entryway to the flat.

‘Gren?’ he calls, voice soft in case there’s something waiting for him. ‘Gren?’

No answer.

It’s fine, he tells himself. Gren is a wily old serpent. He’s been outsmarting the angels in Heaven for the Earth’s entire existence.

The buzzing from the holy presence gets suddenly overwhelming and feels a little faint. That’s when the smell hits him.

The angel pushes open the nearest door, and his insides churn.

In six millennia, the angel has never thrown up. Why would he? His body can handle much more than the average human body.

His body cannot handle this.

A puddle; something that maybe used to be a demon, mixed with the unmistakeable aura of Holy Water.

_The Holiest_ , he’d told Gren back in the seventies, handing him a small, tartan thermos.

His insides heave again, threatening to turn his entire being inside out. Sure enough, when he checks the kitchen there’s an empty tartan thermos in the sink.

He’s killed his best friend.

He’s  _ killed  _ him.

Gren’s words echo in his ears, loud as the clearest bell in Heaven;  _ we could go away together. _

Together.

Oh.

He feels cold on his body and realises that he’s on the floor, his back against the counter. For the first time in so long he feels…. Alone.

He is alone.

Gren is gone, Fallen from Grace, burned off the face of the earth, and finally wiped from existence itself.

Quite simply, Gren is no more.

And as a result, Soren is also no more.

The demon’s heart had always beat a little faster than his; in everything, really. To a point where Soren had said it directly to his face.

_ You go too fast for me. _

Things are speeding up now; too fast; too _much_ , too fast.

There are so many things left unsaid and so many missed opportunities.

Soren can hear a noise that he’s never heard before; it’s low and agonising and it takes him a moment to realise that it’s coming from him and he doesn’t know how to make it stop.

Tears spill over his cheeks, drip off the end of his nose and land –  _ plat, plat, plat  _ – on the cold floor. He wraps his arms around his own middle in a pathetic attempt to keep himself together.

It doesn’t work.

He lays on the floor wailing for Hell knows how long. His throat is raw, and his voice is slowly giving out with each shuddering breath, and then it’s quiet.

Tears still drip every now and again.

_ Plat _ .

Eventually even they stop, but Gren is still gone.

He’s alone. He’s cried every bit of moisture in his body out onto the ground. His leg is numb from the way he’s curled up on the cold floor. His wings are limp around him like a sad cocoon, and his heart is unmistakably shattered.

How could he have given Gren the Holy Water, knowing full well that the demon fully intended to use it one day?

How could he have let his sharp tongued, yellow eyed, oldest friend walk away from him, time and time again, without ever telling him how much he needed him.

The angel expects the wailing to start up again, but all he can manage is a shuddering breath. He looks around the apartment and realises that it’s so bare, there’s not really anything for him to keep.

Maybe the keys to the Bentley are still in the bowl by the door. Maybe he can keep those.

You know, until the AntiChrist destroys the world, and he’s sent back to Heaven without any of his treasured Earthly possessions.

He might be able to clutch the keys to his chest for a few hours at least, until it’s all over, to numb the pain a little.

A squeak in the distance triggers a little bout of alarm in him, but he decides that he doesn’t really care.

If it’s a human, the world would be over soon anyway and who would believe anything they said about angels laying on the floor of penthouses.

If it’s Angels, good. They can drag him to Heaven and hopefully he can nap through the apocalypse, and his grief, and re-emerge from his mourning period after an appropriate amount of time. Six millennia, maybe.

Dread fills him at the notion of one of Hell’s agents creeping into the apartment. He’s not ready to die. 

But then, is there a point to being stuck in Heaven with stuffy angels, no Earth to watch, no wine, no dancing, no sushi, no old bookshop and no smarmy demon in tight pants, drunk in his living room at 4am belting the hits of Freddie Mercury and absolutely destroying each poor song in the process?

Maybe Hellfire won’t be so bad.

A door slams.

He closes his eyes to prepare himself. The time for grieving is put on pause. He’ll come back to it. Now he needs to summon the energy to fight, or explain, or hell, he’d settle for the energy to move.

His stomach turns again as the smell of smoke hits him. Agents of Hell, then.

Slow, deliberate footsteps echo in the vast space, then they stop.

‘Angel?’

Soren cracks open a crusty eye to see a tall, skinny demon with melted sunglasses and a near-empty wine bottle clutched in one hand. His face is covered in ash and the ends of his hair are black instead of red.

‘This is cruel,’ the demon says, slurring a chuckle. Then he turns his head to the ceiling and bellows; ‘Is this your idea of a  _ joke _ ?’

Soren’s first thought is; how does one slur a chuckle? But then he peels his face from the cold floor and sits up.

‘I spose you’re here… here to… t’tell me to save the humans?’ Gren mumbles, trying to put a hand on his hip and missing. ‘Well I…. I’m not gonna.’

Soren frowns at him, wary. A trick of Hell, maybe? A side effect of grief?

‘Because y’know what?’ Gren continues, pointing at him with the bottle. ‘There’s no point. No  _ point  _ Angel.’

Soren’s heart is breaking, because his demon is here.

‘S’no point because the Earth isn’t the same without you.’ The demon’s lip wobbles. ‘An’ I’m real sorry I wasn’t there to help you. Coz you deserve help. And happiness. And sushi.’

Soren gets to his feet, and his legs take a little convincing to hold him up.

‘Don’t- don’t look at me like that,’ Gren grumbles, leaning against the wall. He’s clearly hammered; probably more drunk than Soren has ever seen him.

The angel stumbles over to Gren, his brain unwilling to provide any words whatsoever, lest they shatter this illusion.

Then he’s standing right in front of the redhead. He stinks of smoke and wine. His bottom lip has been worried to bleeding. His hair is singed and there are tear tracks in the filth on his cheeks. Soren takes Gren’s face in his hands.

He’s alive, and he’s perfect.

The bottle slips from Gren’s grip and shatters on the floor, but neither of them flinch. The demon rips his sunglasses from his face and throws them away, his red-rimmed yellow eyes searching every facet of Soren’s face for any imperfection; any sign that he isn’t real.

‘Angel?’ he whispers, his voice cracking and his knees giving in slightly. He cups Soren’s face in his hands and lets out a fresh sob.

‘You’re okay,’ Soren says, a burst of relieved laughter bubbling up his throat. ‘Oh, thank the Heavens.’

Gren mashes his lips to Soren’s without any warning, and the angel goes weak against the taller man’s body. Tears mix with ash and soot and relief as they hold each other.

‘I thought you were dead,’ Gren chokes out, kissing Soren’s cheeks and his nose and his hair.

‘I thought… I…’ Soren can’t even get the words out. ‘The Holy Water.’

Gren snorts, despite himself. ‘You thought that nasty puddle of demon was me? I don’t smell  _ that  _ bad.’

‘It’s not funny,’ Soren growls, pulling his face away, and Gren’s expression goes dark.

‘I know,’ he says, resting his head against Soren’s and closing his eyes. ‘Your bookshop… it’s gone. Burned down. I thought they used Hellfire on you...’

Soren’s stomach drops, and even though he’s devastated, recent events have given him a shift of perspective. ‘As long as  _ you’re  _ alive, I don’t care,’ he says firmly.

‘Liar,’ Gren mumbles, capturing his lips in another sweet kiss.

‘The  _ whole  _ shop?’ Soren confirms.

The demon nods.

‘Oh no.’ Fresh tears well in his eyes.

‘We’ll build you a new one,’ Gren promises. ‘A bigger one. And we’ll move all my shit in-‘

‘Gren you don’t _have anything_ to move in anywhere.’

‘-and we’ll just live there together forever,’ Gren finishes with a nod, and Soren remembers that he’s really quite drunk.

‘That sounds perfect, my dear,’ Soren replies, standing on his tiptoes to kiss the demon’s cheek. ‘Unfortunately, that means we have to save the world first.’

Gren throws his head back and groans. ‘Ugh.  _ Fine _ . But if you ever die on me again, Angel, I swear to God herself, I’m going to kill you.’

Soren beams at him.

_ Now I know you hate this place… _

_ …not a trace of me would argue… _

_ …honey, we should run away _

__

_...oh someday… _


	5. Emotional Support Snake

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mild spoilers; have fun!

It had been three days since Armaged _didn’t,_ and Soren hadn’t been able to shake Gren from his freshly refurbished bookshop. The demon made excuse after excuse to stick around, and even though Soren genuinely didn’t mind having his friend around, he did enjoy his space every now and again.

‘Gren,’ he said on the third night, making himself a cup of cocoa the human way. ‘Are you planning on staying here long-term?’

The demon’s body stiffened, and he leaned his head back over the arm of the couch he was lounging on, staring at the angel upside down. ‘Do you want me to leave?’ he asked, eyebrows knitting together.

‘No,’ Soren said quickly, sipping at his drink. ‘You know you’re always welcome here. I just need to know if I should expect your bony backside on my couch every night.’

Gren scowled a little. ‘I can leave if you want me to leave.’

‘Why don’t _you_ want to leave?’ Soren fired back, not content to let Gren wiggle his way out of talking.

See, they hadn’t talked. Not really. And there was a lot to talk about; Heaven and Hell were leaving them alone for now, but they’d still played a part in sidestepping the apocalypse.

And Soren felt like that was a large enough event in their lives that they should probably discuss it at some point. They’d spent six thousand years on opposite sides, occasionally meeting in the middle, but now?

They were on their own side now. They could progress in their lives _together_.

Gren scowled at him, like he didn’t really want to have this conversation, but he also knew that Soren wasn’t going to let him get away with _not_ having it.

‘I don’t want to be home alone when Hell comes for me,’ he said simply, not breaking eye contact.

Soren huffed through his nose. ‘Gren you don’t have to lie to me,’ he said with a sigh, sitting on the squishy armchair opposite the demon.

Gren screwed up his nose like a petulant child. ‘Drop it, Angel.’

‘No,’ Soren replied, leaning forward. ‘Talk to me.’

Gren rolled off the couch and landed on the floorboards with a thud. ‘You were _gone_ ,’ he hissed, looking up at Soren. ‘You were gone and this place was on fire and I never want to feel like that again, so I’m staying right the fuck here and you can’t make me leave.’

Soren’s expression softened even as Gren’s scowl deepened. ‘I’m sorry,’ the angel said, running a hand through Gren’s red hair. ‘I should have thought about that.’

Gren leaned into the angel’s touch, his eyes fluttering closed. ‘It was horrible,’ he whispered, eyes still closed. ‘I can’t sleep without seeing it.’

In the days since The-Little-Apocalypse-That-Couldn’t, Soren had done a lot of thinking. About life and death, and heaven and hell, and Earth, and Humanity. Deciding to thinking with his heart instead of his brain, the Angel leaned forward to press a gentle kiss against Gren’s forehead.

‘I’m right here,’ he said quietly against Gren’s skin. ‘And I’m never going anywhere.’

‘Promise?’ Gren whispered.

‘I promise.’

‘I’m so tired,’ Gren confessed. ‘I can’t sleep.’

Soren leaned back, taking Gren’s face in his hands. ‘Come with me,’ he said gently, pulling the demon to his feet. ‘I don’t know why you even bothered letting your body get used to sleep, but if you need it, you need it.’

Gren didn’t even have it in him to snap back, he just gripped Soren’s hand tightly as the angel led him up the stairs.

‘Have you ever slept in here?’ Gren asked, looking at the perfectly made bed.

‘Never,’ Soren replied cheerfully. ‘But you’re more than welcome to use it.’

Gren squeezed his hand tighter. ‘Stay,’ he whispered. ‘Please.’

Soren agreed with a nod, and settled on top of the covers while Gren snuggled under them on the other side.

‘Thank you,’ Gren sighed.

Soren waited until Gren was fast asleep before he removed himself from the room. He hated sitting and doing nothing when there were books to mend, and stories to read and cocoa to make and then forget about.

Gren slept solidly all night, and Soren kept his music quiet so that he could keep ears out for the demon, but he didn’t hear a peep.

After a solid 24 hours, Soren tiptoed up the stairs to check on Gren, only to find that the demon was no longer in the bed. Panic rose in his throat, and he pulled the blankets back.

Coiled deep in the sheets and blankets was a thick black snake. His red belly gleamed where it could be seen, his scales shiny and healthy. Soren hadn’t seen Gren’s serpent form in many centuries, and it shocked him to see it now. Had he always been such a large snake? Or was it just he was curled up in the bed?

The snake’s eyes were closed, but its forked tongue flickered in and out of his mouth, tasting the air.

‘Well as long as you’re alive,’ Soren said with a huff, putting a hand on his hip.

Gren just buried his head back into his coils and went back to sleep.

Soren covered him up again and went down the stairs with a cheery whistle.

Days passed and the demon didn’t stir. Soren was aware that Gren liked to sleep and had once stayed unconscious through an entire century, but the angel missed the constant presence.

After a week, a strange thudding sound startled Soren from a book about art in the 1920s, and he spun around to see a large snake working its way down the stairs.

‘Well good morning to you too,’ he said with a warm smile, despite the fact that it was 11 at night.

The snake flickered its tongue in greeting.

‘Are you going to stay a snake?’ he asked, and the serpent slithered across the floorboards to coil around Soren’s feet.

‘Oh you lazy thing,’ he muttered, wrapping his hands around the thick band of muscle of the snake’s middle and heaving him up onto the spare cushion beside him. Gren gave a little hiss and recoiled himself in a more comfortable position before resting his head on the angel’s lap.

‘Don’t stay like that too long,’ Soren warned. ‘I’m very clumsy. I will trip on you.’

Gren, apparently, didn’t care and promptly went back to sleep.

The snake became a permanent fixture in the shop; scaring away the rare customer and keeping Soren company throughout the long nights.

Soren was slowly getting irritated, however, since the news that he had a miraculously large and terrifying snake in his store was only encouraging curious teenagers and reptile enthusiasts.

‘Please don’t bother him,’ Soren whined, picking at the frail binding of the book on his desk.

Gren didn’t seem to mind being ogled, but he wasn’t keen on being petted by anyone who wasn’t Soren.

‘Will he bite, mister?’ one child asked, leaning on the counter.

‘He better not,’ Soren added in a low tone, eyeing off the snake.

The demon cracked open a yellow eye and stuck his tongue out ever so slowly before going back to basking in the sun.

‘Harry from number four said he bit someone’s arm off once,’ one of the other children whispered. ‘Is that true?’

The snake slowly opened his jaws, showing off sharp fangs. The children screamed and ran from the store with peals of delighted and slightly terrified laughter.

‘Do you have to?’ Soren sighed, resting his chin on his hand. ‘They’re so loud.’

Gren let out a tiny hiss that Soren recognised as a chuckle.

‘Are you going to be scaley forever?’ Soren asked, and Gren rested his chin on the arm of the chair, blinking slowly.

‘Fine, stay quiet. See if I care,’ the angel replied, no bite in his voice. ‘Would you like more of your bebop? Or Queen?’

The snake hissed again in irritation and it was Soren’s turn to chuckle.

One evening, while Soren read on his couch to the soft sounds of Mozart, he felt a pair of thin arms wrap around his shoulders.

‘Hello you,’ Soren said with a pleased smile.

‘Hello,’ Gren replied with a yawn. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘What for?’ Soren asked, twisting in his chair to look at the demon; he was identical to how he’d been months ago when he’d first fallen asleep in the bed upstairs, except his hair was a little longer.

‘I think I needed to… recover,’ Gren said quietly, resting his bony chin in the dip of Soren’s collarbone. ‘I should have spoken to you about it.’

‘You can be my emotional support snake whenever you like, my dear,’ Soren said, resting his palm on Gren’s cheek.

The demon snorted. ‘You’re my emotional support angel, you mean.’

‘I can be that as well,’ Soren smiled, leaning his head against Gren’s. ‘Any time you need.’

‘Can we go to lunch?’ Gren asked. ‘I’m starving.’

Soren pressed a gentle kiss to Gren’s cheek. ‘Lunch sounds perfect.’

**Author's Note:**

> Come yell with me!  
> Tumblr; @aaravosed


End file.
